As such, he continued to hold her, steady her, until at last she took a step backward and let her hand drop from his chest. He withdrew his arm and folded both behind his back, noting that she held her leather dossier with such vehemence that the pages within were at risk of creasing.
It might be the first time she has looked at me that way, but it might also be the last time,he realized, confused by the sharp pinch of disappointment that made its way down from his throat to his chest.
“Did you want lemonade?” he asked, diving for neutral territory.
She glanced up at him shyly. “Lemonade would be… very welcome.”
“There’s a summer house by the boating lake,” he said. “I’d suggest working there if you want to be ‘outside’ without singeing to a charming, lobster red. Unless you don’t mind a raspberry hue to your skin.”
A tiny line appeared between her eyebrows as if she was striving to answer a very challenging question. “There is a summer house?”
“I wouldn’t say there was if there wasn’t.”
She sniffed a laugh. “No, I suppose you would not, unless you wished to trick me into working in a dilapidated boat house or something as punishment for my jumping to conclusions. You see, Albion, I hate nothing in this world… except spiders. I admire them from a naturalist’s perspective and respect how they keep other pests at bay, but I cannot stand to be near them. It is the worst part about my passion for plants, for there arealwaysspiders.”
“I’ll have someone clear the summer house of spiders,” he told her, warmed by her willingness to reveal a weakness. “Is that what you’re writing about—plants? Your cousin mentioned to me that you had an interest in flowers. I’m sorry, but I didn’t realize he meant ascientificinterest.”
Her face fell. “One day, I will write about herbal remedies and the power of nature as medicine, but this is something different.” She held the leather dossier as if it had suddenly become very heavy. “Something more immediately important.”
“Can I ask what it is?” He already knew the answer.
“What I am writing will have to be an exception to my rule,” she told him, casting her gaze down.
He nodded. “Of course.” He bowed his head, his heart still racing with the memory of holding her and seeing her gaze into his eyes without fear or disgust. “I’ll send for that lemonade and speak to someone about the summer house.”
He turned and made to head back the way he had come when her voice called out and halted him. “What of my swimming lessons? Now that our misunderstanding has been resolved, would you still be inclined to teach me?”
He glanced back at her, resisting the urge to smile. “Tomorrow morning. I usually leave at dawn. If you’re awake and willing, I’ll teach you.”
“Dawn?” She looked stricken.
He shrugged. “It’s your choice, Matilda.”
With that, he continued on toward the house, placing a private bet on whether or not she would join him tomorrow morning. And whether or not he would be relieved or disappointed if he won his wager, for catching her in a moment of unsteadiness was one thing but helping her to swim was quite another. Indeed, to be successful, they would have to get alotcloser.
He did not know if either of them was ready for that.
CHAPTERTHIRTEEN
“Icould be warm in my bed, dreaming of home and my friends,” Matilda muttered, pulling her arms through the sleeves of the greatcoat she had commandeered from her father’s wardrobe and never intended to part with.
It was not yet fully light outside, the sky a dusky purple, the birds offering the first notes of their dawn chorus. Several times, Matilda had considered not going, but pride had got her up, dressed, mostly awake, and out of her bedchamber.
She wore the same attire she had worn the first time Albion had seen her, more comfortable in trousers and a shirt than a dress, especially at such an hour. Nor did she like the idea of trying to swim in a dress; the very notion made her feel immediately suffocated.
“Your Grace!” a maid yelped, coming up the stairs as Matilda headed down.
Matilda was delighted to find that it was the same maid who had helped her with luncheon and a map. “Good morning! Sorry, I did not mean to startle you.”
The maid blinked at the sight of her. “Are you… going somewhere, Your Grace? Did you want breakfast?”
“I suspect I will have it when I return,” Matilda replied, smiling broadly at the woman. Perhaps, too broadly. Like a madwoman. “Has His Grace risen yet?”
The maid nodded uncertainly. “He is on the terrace, Your Grace.” She gestured ahead of her. “He said he was waiting for someone, but I didn’t know it would be you. A morning walk?”
“Something a little soggier.” Matilda pressed on before she truly alarmed the poor maid, sweeping out of the front door with a sense of purpose in every step… and a small amount of apprehension.
Where books, education, knowledge, and research were her forte, anything that required athletic prowess was not. She could ride a horse passably well, but that was after two decades of lessons. She had been prohibited from ever handling a bow and arrow again after an unfortunate incident with three instructors. She ran as if she had rolled her ankle at the start of a race and was merely trying to finish it through sheer determination. The only thing she was remarkably good at was shooting, but she loathed the very notion of hunting, so it was something of a useless talent.
